CHAPTER I
Claude Wheeler opened his eyes, just as he had done often before. The dreary monotony of his day thus monotonously began. He turned on one elbow and gazed at his shirt hanging on the chair beside his bed. It was the same shirt which he had worn yesterday, would wear to-morrow. But it was not the monotony of the shirt that deluged him with self-pity. It was the fact that he had only one collar-button. Other people, the Erlich boys in Lincoln, his own father, had two. Claude had but one, which fastened his shirt in front. When he wore a collar he had to fasten it at the back with an old piece of string, which Mahailey had given him.
Claude would have liked to buy another collar-button. He had more than enough money; and his father was a rich farmer. He tried to excuse his cowardice to himself, but in his heart he knew that it was too difficult for him to do this simple thing.
He arose wearily and dressed. He crept down a flight of stairs to the second floor, thence he descended to the first floor by a rude ladder. There had been a staircase where the ladder stood but, in an access of humility, Claude had slid down the banisters two weeks before. Mistaking his self-effacement for hilarity, his father, laughing heartily, had removed the stairs with an ax. Nat Wheeler was a large easygoing affable man with a strong sense of humor.
It made little difference with the habits of the household. The men used the ladder freely. Mahailey slept in the cellar on a hanging shelf, which Claude had built for her, so that the rats could not get at her. She used to put herself to sleep by swinging the shelf to and fro, while she sang “And they laid Jesse James in his grave.” It was one of her quaint customs, a survival of her early arboreal life in Virginia. It added much to the gloom which overspread the household.
Mrs. Wheeler suspected that this removal of the stairs was a joke. She had learned that her husband’s humor might wear any guise. But she was old fashioned. She thought it improper either to descend or ascend a ladder, if there were any men below, and as the men always arose before she did and stayed up after her bed-time, she was practically confined to the second floor.
Claude could hear her now, walking up and down the passage above. He could hear her wandering, uncertain footsteps. He knew that she had both hands pressed tightly to her breast, that she was lost in religious meditation. He feared that, in her absence of mind, she might descend by the ladder and then be unable to overcome her scruples against ascending. There would be no place for her to sleep, except with Mahailey in the cellar. He had not made the shelf wide enough for two. His mother might die for want of sleep. He felt bitterly about that. He heard her voice calling him. She was blinking down at him over the banisters.
“It is circus day, Claude, and I’m so worried about your collar-button. I have a piece of an old can-opener here. Do you think you could make that do?”
“Don’t bother about it, mother. I’ll use a shingle nail.”
“Rest, rest, perturbed spirit!” she said softly and resumed her wanderings.
He went out into the kitchen to wash. Other people had used the bathroom before him and he was very exclusive. In Mahailey’s old broken mirror, he looked at himself. He was a handsome boy with a red face, pink eyebrows and a square head upon which his red hair stood up like a cock’s comb. He hated his head, however, because he always had to wear a soft hat. A stiff derby abraded the sharp corners.
Mahailey came with a low, padding step, her apron thrown over her face, as usual. She always wore it this way. In the Wheeler family, no one but Claude had ever seen her face. Sometimes she shyly removed her apron, when no one was about, and gave him one look. It was enough. Claude knew why she kept the apron over it.
When Claude saw her coming, he ran out of doors, down the hillside toward the barn. Molly, the faithful old three-legged cow, was mournfully chewing her cud. She had lost her other leg in the Civil War. He put his arms around her neck and kissed her. She stopped chewing and kissed him in return. He remained there a long time and thought about the life of a farmer.
A farmer raised good corn and wheat and sold them. In return he got clothes that wore out in two or three years, a house that would not stand more than a century, an automobile good for less than fifty thousand miles, furniture that broke down in two generations, food that lasted hardly a day.
The life of a farmer was useless, vain, empty, unsatisfying, monotonous, depressing, dreary. He was a farmer and he had but one collar-button.
A terrible joy clutched at the boy’s heart. He knew that he was playing the part to perfection. If he could keep it up through four hundred and fifty-nine pages the book would be a success. The Young Hamlet of the Prairies would make a hit.